The Last Blood Spilled
by Calenataure
Summary: A one-shot about Maedhros and Maglor's last conversation before deciding to attack the camp of Eonwë and steal the Silmarils. It delves a little into the mind of Maglor during the conversation, and what goes through his mind after Maedhros's suicide.


"Maitimo, please," the dark-haired elf pleaded with his brother.

"Don't call me that," the red-haired elf said curtly, as his left hand moved unconsciously to his stump.

"Please, Russo. It is done. Moringotto is defeated. Please, we don't need to do this."

"We don't? Tell me that again. Tell me that when we stood in the square of Tirion when the skies were bloody red, when in our folly we followed father Fëanáro, blindly without reason or hope. Tell me that again when you see your beloved who mourns your fall, when our beloved cousins return from Mandos and curse our betrayals," Maedhros said bitterly.

Maglor knew he wouldn't be able to convince his brother. Deep down, he had always known the Oath would lead them to their deaths, yet he had taken it anyways in his blindness. He loved his brother, and he had always admired him for his strength and wisdom. But now, he knew he would not sway his decision. In his brother's mind, Maglor knew there was no going back for pardon, yet Maglor knew he had to try to convince his brother.

"Russo, please. We've done enough terrible things."

"There will never be enough."

Maedhros turned towards his younger brother, and his face was filled with anguish as the eerie light of the campfire danced across his face.

"Russo-"

"Enough? Tell that to Elwing's sons, her sons who she did not even care for, Elwing's brothers, who our _dear _Tyelkormo allowed to be abandoned in the wood. We swore the damn oath for a reason. Folly, perhaps. But we are so close. So close to completing this loathsome task, so close to fulfilling Fëanáro's wishes with his sons all dead. There is nothing left for us. Just the Oath, or the Everlasting Darkness."

"Russo, Elwing's sons loved us," the minstrel said softly, and put his hand on his elder brother's shoulder.

"Did they still love us when they heard of their mother's fate? Of all the things we did?"

Maglor could see the sadness in his brother's eyes. He knew his brother loved the two boys like sons, as he did, and it pained him to bid them farewell.

"Yes, they did. They loved us because in their eyes, their mother and father abandoned them for the Silmaril."

Maedhros stared into the fire, and a hard glint came into his steel grey eyes.

"Yes. She abandoned them because she loved the Silmaril more than her own sons. Yes. I remember now."

"Please, Russo," Maglor murmured once more, in futile hopes of softening his brother's heart. At this, Maedhros's temper flared up.

"Makalaurë Kanafinwë, you know I hate this vile oath as much as you do! I do not want to kill anymore! But I do not want the burden of the oath anymore. Not anymore. We are so close to finishing our damned task, after so many bloody murders. No one will remember us as good people, Makalaurë. You know that. It doesn't matter that I lead the alliance to the Nirnaeth, or that you write and make beautiful things, that we hate every second of this cursed existence under the oath! No one will remember us for the great things we've done. And are we great people still? Are we great people? Tell me, brother," the taller elf finished sadly.

"I do not know," said Maglor with uncertainty, but deep down, he knew his brother was a great man, despite all he had done, but his brother would never admit it. Maglor admired his brother's strength, and he despised that he himself was so weak, that he could never stand up to their fierce father.

"Because we are not. And you know it. You know it in your heart," finished Maedhros.

"Please, Russo. Please. Don't do this. Don't make us do this for the Silmaril. Not again. Not after the Havens, not after raising the sons of Eärendil. You are the leader of our house, and my brother who I have always loved and respected, but please, don't do this to us. Don't do this to yourself, don't do this to me."

"I loved them as sons, too, Makalaurë. You know that. But we will never see them again."

"Please, Russo."

"We depart at sunset," the red-haired elf said with finality.

"Russo-"

"We depart at sunset, and we will kill the guards outside the tent. Eonwë will not see us, for he and his captains have dinner then each day. I'm sorry, Makalaurë. I can't live with this oath anymore. I must complete it, or be doomed forever. Do you want to fail our brothers? Doom them to an un-existence, forever because our house has failed our foolish unbreakable oath?"

Maglor was filled with a great sadness that he saw also on the face of his brother, a broken man who hid his pain from the outside world.

"Some did more terrible things than we did," the dark-haired elf said coldly, recalling the ill deeds of Tyelkormo and Curufinwë at Nargothrond.

"And Umbarto?" Maedhros asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Look at those flames, Makalaurë. Tell me you cannot see his face in those flames, every time."

And to this, Maglor had no answer, for his brother was right about Ambarussa. Kind, gentle, and killed in the flames by their mad father.

"We depart at sunset."

"For Eru's sake Maitimo-"

"You dare to speak the name of the one? Kinslayer?"

"Maitimo-" pleaded Maglor, before he was cut off by the angry voice of Maedhros.

"Don't call me that! Just one more death, just two more deaths- what does it matter to you? You don't know these men. Like all the others you- the others we killed. Did you know the name of the Sinda you cut down in Doriath? Oh wait, the many Sindar you cut down? Did you know the life of the Teleri man, the Teleri woman that you killed? Tell me, Makalaurë, what does it matter to you? To us? Our hands have the blood of thousands on them, Makalaurë. What does it matter to you?" shouted the eldest son of Fëanor. There was nothing but bitterness and anger in his voice.

"It matters to me because we have changed," said Maglor in a low voice. "We are not cold-blooded murderers."

"Were we ever, Kanafinwë?" Maedhros said softly. "Did you ever feel remorse?"

"From the first man I killed," whispered the dark-haired elf with sadness.

"And so did I. I hated our father for what he did, for his folly. But there was nothing we could do about it. We depart at sunset. We will be free from the Oath at last, even if it means our deaths."

But Maedhros was wrong. He was never free from the Oath, from the curse of the Silmarils. Maglor heard his hoarse voice every day after that, and saw his face contorted in pain. And Maglor could still see him leaping into the fiery fissure in his despair, still clutching the accursed Silmaril as he faced his death.

"Goodbye, Makalaurë."

He could still hear his older brother's screams of agony, as his fiery spirit burned in the earth, and the Silmaril, accursed thing, burned his only hand. And Maglor burned as well. The jewel burned him like a white hot iron, and disgusted by the object, by the strife, the evil deeds, and the agony that it had caused, he ran. He ran, and ran, and held it in his palm as it burned and scorched his fingers, until he reached the cliff and cast the thing into the sea with all the strength he had. And it arced high, like a shooting star, until it vanished into the depths of the ocean, to whatever fate remained to it. And at last, he was free from the wicked oath, and the cursed Silmarils. But Maglor was never truly free. Never free from the deeds he did, from the lives of the good men and women he killed, from the screams of his beloved brother, and from the unseeing eyes of his kin. And he prayed to the Valar and the One that he had defied, and whispered, Forgive me.


End file.
